


faces and darkness separate us over and over

by crookedspoon



Series: Creating God to Survive [7]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Community: 31_days, Community: khrfest, Community: mission_insane, Gen, Ghosts, Illusions, Inspired by Poetry, Mirrors, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Do you know the feeling when you wake up and the world is askew?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	faces and darkness separate us over and over

**Author's Note:**

> 710 words. Title taken from Sylvia Plath's poem „Mirror.“
> 
> Originally conveived for the prompts _II. - 27. Mukuro/Chrome - mirrors; "some days she wakes up and it's not her face she sees in the mirror"_ from khrfest's Round V. Additionally written for the prompt "Mirror" (Sylvia Plath) from mission_insane's Inspired by Poems table and Apr 07, 2011 "memories always remember you" from 31_days.

Images rise from the vapor like ghosts or deep-sea monsters, scenes from 70's horror movies or amateur footage. Today her fingers dispel a middle-aged man with a goatee; he screams in pain as his face shrivels, blackens in splotches and flakes off.

Chikusa warned her that one day the faces of the murdered would confront her. Feeble minds like hers surely cannot handle, Ken added. She's learned better, she would argue now. Their experiences are no standard for everyone. Do they know she sees them, do they know they're not hers?

Her hands are clean, her conscience troubled: it's not hers alone anymore.

On days like this, when the images follow her from the dream, the world feels askew. Her own sense of self begins to fray at the edges, become more translucent.

On days like this, she cannot remember what her own face looks like.

A mirror isn't as exact and faithful as everybody claims. She half-expects it to show her someone else's face or give in to the touch as she wipes the surface free from mist. As in childhood memories, when she wished to find a way to the adventures Behind the Looking-Glass.

A look behind the reflecting surface reveals no rabbit-holes, but a medicine cabinet with out-of-date prescription drugs that were never used nor paid for. Doxepin, Advil, Tylenol - that's what the labels say, anyway. The drugs are spiked with toxic chemicals that kill or paralyze, depending on the dose. They're Chikusa's private stash.

She heaves a mental sigh.

She has become so used to the world twisting around her that the meaning of the word "ordinary" is lost on her. Despite her powers and strange companions, she is not another version of Alice. She is more like the mirror itself, a gateway between this world and a reflection of itself. She is both Chrome and she is Mukuro, no longer a tool he owns, separate from himself, but a part of his soul, his memories and his dreams - especially his dreams.

"Oya, oya. You look like you've seen a ghost."

She slams the cabinet door and it's Mukuro staring back at her, grin nearly splitting his face in two.

"It's nothing unusual." Her voice trails off. She's all too aware that the only things shielding her from his gaze are the mirror and the towel wrapped around her.

He chuckles. "Oh, is it?"

"Yes, not anymore."

"Do you want me to make them go away?" He's leaning on the edge of the oblong, elbow poking through the surface.

"It's okay. As long as I see them I know we're connected, I know that you're alright." She knows that this sounds silly, as soon as she has said it - how can anyone who sees those visions be alright? - but it's her way of viewing things in a positive light.

"My sweet Chrome," he says, as he steps forward, emerging from the mirror and the bathroom wall. "It's so like you to suffer this for me. I knew you were the right choice."

Her cheeks are heating at his words, not because his arms encircle her shoulders or his fingers thread through her still-wet strands of hair. She lets herself be cradled in his embrace and it's oh so surreal, being comforted by an illusion for nightmares that aren't hers.

Shouldn't he be the one to receive her sympathies?

He would laugh at the idea, most likely. Isn't she just the mouthpiece for the Messiah, the medium that acts through his will?

"I know what you're thinking," his voice echoes in her mind. "There's no need to let yourself be bogged down by worry."

"But, Mukuro-sama. You don't have to force yourself." With some last shreds of hesitation slowing her movements, her arms wrap around his waist and her fingers clutch at his leather jacket. It's smooth and cold beneath them, almost ordinary. "If you didn't want anyone to see the things you see, you'd not have let me in this close. I am everything you are now, remember?"

Laughter ripples through him, as foretold, and he throws his head back to let it out. "I have taught you well, I see," he says when it subsides a little. "The ghosts will have to fear you now."


End file.
